


you can't start a fire without a spark

by electr1c_compass



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, White House Era (Crooked Media RPF), established emtom, it becomes emtomjon if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electr1c_compass/pseuds/electr1c_compass
Summary: It feels natural to rib Jon like this, made even easier when he can see Jon start to flush in the glow of the sunset. He likes bragging on him; Tommy's a damn good wingman.Except, that's not what he's doing here. Or what he's supposed to be doing, anyway. He just...he really wants Emily to like Jon, Tommy realizes with a sudden knot in his stomach, these two most important people in his world.





	you can't start a fire without a spark

**Author's Note:**

> Well...this was supposed to be a quick kinkmeme fill. And here we are. This is probably karmic retribution for all the times I made a "what if Tommy met her first" joke.
> 
> Endless love and appreciation to anatomical_heart, who helped me turn this fic into what it is. It is a million times better bc of their contribution.

Tommy hadn’t meant to introduce her to Favs like this. He thought it would be more special. Maybe over dinner or drinks at the restaurant where they’d met; the place where they’d literally bumped into each other on the way to the bathrooms and she’d whispered a breathless “hi, I’m Emily”, blushing when he shook her hand. Maybe Tommy would finally take her to work and they’d swing past Favs’ office at the White House one afternoon. It’d be intentional, anyway. Something planned.

He hadn’t pictured it like this: on his knees in front of Emily, her head thrown back against the wall, and Jon knocking quick and perfunctory before opening the door.

“Hey, did you see — _whoa_.”

Tommy didn’t react — couldn’t react. He just froze with one hand splayed over Emily’s knee, time slowing to a crawl around all of them. It cast everything into sharp relief: the frantic pounding of his heart and the still silence between the beats, the taste of Emily on his tongue, Jon staring at them both, eyes wide and open-mouthed.

“Uh...shit, sorry.” Jon looks a little frantic, gaze darting between Tommy and Emily. The panic is obvious on his face and he scrubs a hand over his mouth before stepping back out into the hallway. The door doesn’t swing all the way closed and Tommy hears him fumble for the handle before it clicks back into place.

He stands slowly, painfully aware of the boner tenting his pants. They’d barely made it into the apartment from dinner before she’d pulled him against her, so it’s just a few steps for him to flip the deadbolt. Too little, too late.

Tommy presses his lips together and takes a deep breath in through his nose, leaning against the door for a beat, two. He should...say something, probably.

“So that was Jon,” he offers quietly, turning back to her.

“Fuck,” Emily says, covering her face with her hands. Her voice cracks a little and the movement makes the hem of her dress come untucked from where Tommy had pushed it up to her waist. It falls back around her calves, swaying gently. If it weren't for the bright pink of her face and the light sheen of sweat under her collarbone, it would almost be hard to notice anything out of place. But once Tommy looks closer, he can see the wrinkles in her skirt, where his hands had bunched it up out of the way, the fading pink of his bite scraping against the pale skin of her breast. The evidence is there, if he looks close enough.

“He probably didn't see much,” Tommy tries, aiming for reassuring. She buries her face in his neck when he reaches out for her. “And we’ll do...a better intro another time.”

“Oh my _god_.” She laughs a little, breathless and hollow. “That just fucking happened. Jesus.”

“Do you want to go change?” His heart's still pounding in his ears, his body a confused mix of panicked and turned on. He turns his focus back to her. Emily’s pilfered one of his old t-shirts and has a pair of shorts shoved into his top drawer for nights when she doesn't want to Metro back to her apartment, which is happening more frequently than not these days. He chews on his lower lip, trying to think. “We can — you don't, uh — I'm not trying to rush you out.”

“Yeah, that’s probably — I mean, I should —” she shoves a hand through her hair “— _fuck_. I’m sorry, that wasn’t how I wanted to meet...” She waves, doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.

“I know.” He leans in to kiss her gently and can feel her smile into his touch, bringing up a hand to wipe at the mess on his cheek. “It's not your fault. It was bad timing. I can like, properly introduce you next time.”

“Maybe he’ll knock next time.” Emily untangles herself from his grip and takes a step toward the bedroom, making a face he can't interpret.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Her dress dips low in the back and it's easy to skate his fingers over her bare skin, sliding them around the curve of her ribcage. He leaves his fingers pressed into the spaces between her ribs, feeling her breathe under his palm.

“I’m fine, I’m—” she huffs out a wry laugh and turns to catch his reaction when she says: “I'm still fucking wet, so you might as well finish what you started before I change.”

He chokes a little, just...swallows some air the wrong way. It’s been months and he’s still not used to this: her brashness, her drive, her habit of just...asking for exactly what she wants. Coughing isn’t sexy but he can’t help it, gulping for air until his eyes water. Emily kindly waits him out, waits until he can inhale normally before dropping her dress to the floor and climbing expectantly on the bed. 

He’d managed to lose his suit jacket and tie on their way in and it just takes a few quick movements to shed the rest of his clothes now. He crawls over her, caging her in with his body. “Finish it like this?” He asks, leaning down to kiss her before she can respond. It's easy to pick up where they were before, god — before Jon walked in, and Tommy lets Emily turn the kiss impatient and biting until he’s rocking forward instinctively.

Emily waits until she has her hand on him, until he’s chasing the tight circle of her fist. She waits until he’s so close he can taste it before she says “What if Jon walked in right now?” Tommy doesn't respond, doesn’t know _what_ to say. He’s still above her, panting and swearing, the familiar tightness starting to climb the base of his spine. He can feel himself trembling, his arms shaking, teetering on the edge. Every fiber of his body is tensed, waiting for release, but they just let the moment stretch between them as they study each other’s faces for a long beat before Emily breaks it again. “Should’ve kept going when he came in,” she says quietly, their bodies trapping the words between them, “see how long he stayed.” She moves her hand carefully with the rhythm of her words and Tommy’s never felt more exposed and raw.

“You wanted that?” He nearly doesn’t recognize his own voice, husky and deep, the question scratching his throat.

She doesn’t answer the question, just says “Wanted _you_.”

Tommy’s fumbling, falling, shattering under her touch. “ _Fuck_ , Em.” He spills over her hand, across her stomach, and has to shift away when it gets to be too much, the bed frame creaking as he goes. It feels like he’s gone boneless, collapsing next to her, their legs tangled in the too-small space. It’s some garbage mattress he found on Craigslist; he'd needed one quickly when he moved in with Lovett, Shomik, and Michael — hasn’t bothered to replace it since — and he really prefers not to think about it’s exact source. “Do you need — ?”

She smiles at him, somehow both affectionate and wicked at the same time. “I can — I got it.” And then Jesus, she’s touching herself, shifting restlessly next to him. He’s too useless to do anything but keep an arm around her waist, pinning her to the bed the way she likes it and letting her pant into his mouth.

“You wanted him to stay,” he says quietly when he can tell she's about to come. “Wanted him to watch you, watch us. Jon could join in. You could have both of us —” She comes softly, with a sharp breath and a gentle inhale, her body shaking against him.

They're both sticky and should probably make a move towards the shower or a towel or a t-shirt or something...but Tommy finds he doesn't care, content just to stay here with her. Emily runs hot at night and he tugs her in a little tighter when she kicks the blanket to the floor, his own personal heating blanket. He tells her as much and she laughs, presses a gentle kiss to the underside of his jaw.

He’s drifting towards sleep — his alarm this morning had been ungodly early and if he goes to bed now, maybe he can wake up before she does and catch up on some reading — when she rolls over to prop her chin on his chest. He doesn’t open his eyes but he can feel her watching him when she says cautiously, “Was that okay?” 

“What okay?”

“Don’t be annoying.” She idly taps a finger on his chest. “Um, what I said...earlier.”

“It was fine.” 

“Tommy.”

He squints an eye open, finds her studying him. The hazy streetlight outside his window makes the freckles in her cheeks stand out, her brown eyes glowing even darker. “It was really fine, Emily.”

She can’t keep the eye contact, flicks her gaze somewhere to the wall behind him before taking a breath and looking back. “I uh, don’t want to make it weird.”

“It would take a lot more than that to make it weird.”

There’s a long pause and he can feel her resisting the urge to pry further. It’s a testament to how much time they’ve spent together that he knows she’s breaking the second before it actually happens. “Okay, what does that mean?”

“Stuff — uh — Jon and I — stuff happened on the campaign trail. Like, 2008. Not for a while though...obviously.”

There’s a long, silent stretch while she digests the information. “Like, together?”

He shrugs a little, accidentally jostling her. “Us and — and other, uh, girls.”

“Huh,” she says quietly, thoughtfully. “How hasn’t this come up before?”

“Was there a better time?” He asks, only partially sarcastic. Some of her hair’s fallen in front of her shoulder and he reaches out to push it into place. “It’s not exactly something I planned on dropping in the first six months. And uh, I haven’t exactly made it to this point with anyone else. It doesn’t really come up in casual conversation.”

“Well that was your first mistake,” she points out, “assuming we were on a normal timeline. Besides, I get it.”

“Jon?” He asks and Emily makes an affirmative hum. “You haven’t even met him.”

“What do you think just happened?” She says in faux outrage and he laughs until his ribs hurt. “And if you think I didn’t Google you and everyone else you’ve mentioned, that’s your second mistake.”

“Oh I see how it is.” 

He’s definitely not prepared when she volleys back with: “So did you have to put this on your SF-86?”

“Can’t tell you, sorry babe.”

She scoots closer until the long lines of their bodies press together, ankles tangling back together again beneath the cool fabric of the sheets. “What other incriminating information are you hiding from me, Tommy Vietor?”

“Lots and lots of state secrets,” he says, kissing her when she pouts.

 

He doesn’t usually think of Emily as being young — tries actively not to think about it, actually — but she _looks_ young, collegiate, when he goes to meet her at the security gate, small and ever so slightly uncertain in the unfamiliar space. Her smile’s broad in the over-exaggerated way it gets when she’s hesitant and there’s a small wrinkle in the front of her dress. She’s so goddamn friendly that she’s making small talk with the guard; Tommy can’t usually even get him to crack a smile in the mornings and he makes a mental note to ask her what trick she used. Although, at the same time, he gets it — being pulled into her orbit and unable to resist — and that’s certainly not something he can recreate with an extra cheery “how’s it going?”. He hasn’t been outside all day and the sun’s low enough to cast long shadows across the grass as he crosses the lawn to where she’s standing. He could have let her find her own way into the building, but this feels special somehow — like something worth making the extra effort.

“Hi.” Emily reaches out a hand before he even gets to her, links their fingers before waving to the guard. The Visitor badge swings openly around her neck, but she fits in here, in the shadow of this house built to sustain the future. 

“How was your day?” Their hands swing between them as they wind their way down the drive. 

“Good.” She’s obviously nervous, her lower lip bitten red. Her grin dims a little, ratcheting back down to normal as he leads her in. When they step onto the lobby floor, the clack of her heels echoes a little and he watches her eyes widen as they step further into the recesses of the White House. 

“I can’t give you a very good tour —” he starts “— but this is the West Wing —”

“Shut up,” she says a little breathlessly. “This is _so cool_.”

“Haven’t you been —” 

Emily cuts him off, like she’ll burst if she has to hold back her words or stay contained in this moment as they wind through the first hallway, past the Cabinet Room, and step into the empty press room: “My dad had a tour for us once, yeah, but uh, not this far back. It was a gardens tour and — _wow_.”

“Do you want to get a picture?” He gestures to the podium. “Go on.”

“Are you sure?”

Tommy guides her forward. “Positive.” She hands him her phone and strides across the platform, beaming. He snaps a photo with her phone and then one with his, for good measure.

She crosses her arms and leans on the podium once he pockets their phones, watching him below her. “Do you ever give press conferences up here?”

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s phone calls with reporters though. Off the record, of course.”

“Hot.”

He laughs, cheeks flushing even in the empty room. “Come on, I have some people I want you to meet.”

Tommy keeps her hand in his as he introduces her to all the major characters in his stories: to Dan and Ben and Sarah, as they make their way back through the communications wing. It's a cramped space and she navigates it easily. She's effortless in her grace and Alyssa gives him a pointed thumbs up behind Emily's back. She meets Michael and Tom and Brian in the dim, ominous National Security corridors of the basement, each of them looking as charmed by her as Tommy feels.

Jon’s office door is shut and they pause outside while Tommy knocks — Jon’s probably just working but the pause helps dissipate some of Tommy’s nerves and he can see Emily take a steadying breath.

“You okay?”

“You never get a second chance to make a first impression,” she hisses to Tommy and for some reason it makes him laugh, has him snorting when he hears Jon call “come in” and pushes the door open. 

He leads the way in. The air in Jon’s windowless office feels stale, like he hasn’t left in a few days, and he looks pale and tired in the glow of his computer monitor. Tommy thinks of their cramped cubicle in Chicago, when Jon would whisper phrases to himself, searching and striving to hit the right tone and voice. In a way, there’s a piece of Jon that became President, that rose to the honor of the office that none of the rest of them had to.

“Take a break, man,” Tommy says by way of a greeting. Jon stands when he sees Emily and the wrinkles in his suit look even more apparent. “Uh, Jon, this is Emily. Em, Jon.”

“Hi,” Emily says quietly, a little shyly. “Hope we're not interrupting.” She reaches her right hand out to shake his, keeping Tommy's hand clutched tightly in the other. Jon stretches across the desk to take it.

“No worries,” he says easily. “I should take a break anyway. I’ve been staring at my screen for a little too long.” He stays standing, propped against the back of his chair. “So Tommy finally decided to let you brave the bowels of the White House, huh?” 

“Had to bring her in at some point,” Tommy points out and Jon shoots him a smile. 

“Not too afraid I would embarrass you?”

“She can handle it,” Tommy assures him and he can feel Emily's giggle where she's pressed against his arm. Tommy grins down at her. “More worried about what Cody would say anyway. Not you so much.” He clears his throat. “We’re headed to dinner and drinks after this. That bar down the street Alyssa likes, if you want a break.” Jon glances back at his computer, but when his stomach growls loudly in the otherwise empty room, Tommy knows they’ve convinced him. “You have to eat, c’mon.”

“This one,” Jon tells Emily, draping his suit jacket over his desk chair and reaching to undo the buttons on his cuffs, rolling them up his forearms, “kept me from starving during...all the elections, I guess.”

She keeps her arm looped through Tommy’s as they make their way back out into the main corridors. “He’s good at that,” she agrees. Tommy doesn’t know what to say to that, just blushes at her. He can feel her hand tighten where it’s tucked into the crook of his elbow. When he catches her eye, she smiles gently at him. Jon coughs awkwardly, loudly enough that Tommy knows it’s intentional. He ignores him — he’s seen enough PDA with Jon’s past girlfriends. “What were you working on?” Emily asks, turning back to Jon as they walk across the lawn, back into the heartbeat of the city.

Jon holds the gate open for them as they head for H Street. “We’re uh — reconciling a speech with some new campaign strategies.” He gives Emily a toothy grin. “Sometimes, I’m not even sure what _I’m_ working on.”

“He tells us being Director is _such_ a hard job,” Tommy says teasingly as they walk in step down the road, dodging crowds of tourists. “It’s _so_ difficult to shape the President’s entire message.” It feels natural to rib Jon like this, made even easier when he can see Jon start to flush in the glow of the sunset. He likes bragging on him; Tommy's a damn good wingman.

Except, that's not what he's doing here. Or what he's supposed to be doing, anyway. He just...he really wants Emily to like Jon, Tommy realizes with a sudden knot in his stomach, these two most important people in his world.

When they get to the bar, Jon and Emily snag seats at a hightop near the back of the room where it's still fairly quiet as Tommy goes to collect their drinks.

“Em, the usual?” He asks Emily as they split up, aims his next question at Jon: “Beer?” Jon nods.

“Yes please.” She's pressed close to him, trapped between Jon and the crowd of people already gathering, escaping their offices on a lazy summer Thursday. He can't resist leaning down and pressing a kiss to her mouth, quick and hard and possessive. Her hand curls against his button down, tugging at the fabric. “I’ll be right back.”

Emily’s flushed, pink with heat in the crowded bar. “Okay.”

He elbows his way to the bar to order their drinks and keeps an eye on Emily and Jon settling at the table. Jon leans in close to say something, makes her laugh with a bright smile and her head thrown back.

It takes a while for Emily’s drink to come, the bar getting louder as people keep pushing their way in, and he sips his beer while he waits. Emily and Jon are deep in conversation and he relaxes a little, picking at the paper label on his bottle. Jon looks endearingly earnest, gesturing emphatically at whatever they’re talking about. It's an oddly familiar dance now that he thinks about it, reminiscent of their campaign days, of bars and dark hotel rooms in obscure cities spread all over the country. They've left small pieces of themselves there, scattered in all the places they've touched.

“Sorry for the wait,” the bartender tells him and he shakes his head before she's even done speaking.

“Don't worry about it.” She gives him a grateful smile as he picks up their beers in one hand and Emily's vodka soda in the other. When he sits down at the table, straddling one of the stools, Jon raises his beer and they all clink glasses.

“Emily was just telling me about her internship,” Jon informs him, lifting the bottle to his mouth.

“It's not articulating the Presidential message or anything —” Emily hedges.

“Every part makes a difference,” Jon says and she glances over at Tommy.

“Jon's very passionate about Get Out the Vote.” He takes a long drink from his beer as Jon and Emily both laugh.

“I guess that's something we both have in common,” she says and Tommy catches her smirk, reaches over to squeeze her knee.

“Where are you from, Emily?” Jon asks. Tommy can recite both of their answers by heart and tunes out the rest of the conversation. He scans across the crowd, trying to pick out any familiar faces. It's an unfortunate habit they've all gotten into, always on the lookout for Republican aides and desperate reporters. There are a few people he vaguely knows, but none of them are standing close enough for him to take note of or be concerned about. Neither of them, nor Emily, need a repeat of the beer pong incident. And Emily — Emily's watching Jon with the kind of reverent awe he attracts everywhere he goes, the quiet, soft intimidation he can't help but foster. 

Now that he takes notice of it, Jon's watching her too. Not as obviously, maybe, but with a quick smile and easy laugh. It seems silly that Tommy had even been worried about this.

“Oh Massachusetts,” Emily's teasing when he loops back into the conversation, her chin propped on her palm, “such a hard-fought battleground state.”

Tommy's missed the setup, but the punchline makes Jon laugh full bodied, covering his mouth with his hand. It's the kind of open joy that's vulnerable, buckling under the weight of unbridled emotion.

Tommy admires that about him.

He's staring at Jon now, probably; accidentally catches his eye. Jon looks self-conscious under the attention. He breaks their eye contact and looks away. That's — fuck, the opposite of what Tommy wanted. He wants to reassure Jon, not fucking scare him off. He doesn't know what his face is doing any more, seems to have lost all control entirely, and takes a second to regroup, taking another long pull of his beer.

“Another round?” He offers because — well, why not. It's probably too soon (his own bottle is still half full), but it feels like he needs to something to prolong this moment in time, stretch it out for as long as he can.

“I'll come with you,” Jon offers, right as Emily says “I'm good”.

“Are you?” Tommy asks her, “or do you secretly want another?”

She laughs, reaches out for him. “Surprise me.” He stands, bends down to kiss her again. He's tall enough that it's a sharp angle, forcing her head back to meet him. She tastes like vodka and is summer-warm under his touch. When he makes himself step away, Jon’s lingering close by — just out of reach, beyond their circle, and not far enough away to disappear entirely. Emily’s laughing, waves a hand at them to shoo them away.

Tommy claps a hand to Jon's shoulder as they push their way through the crowd. “I'm glad you came out with us, man.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while since we got out of work together. You’ve been working a lot of late nights.” Jon smiles at him, the gap in his teeth on full display. “I'm glad to finally get to meet your girl.”

 _Your_ girl.

The possession sits oddly with Tommy — like he wants to correct Jon but he's not sure _why_.

Except: he does know. He wants it to be like in Ohio and Iowa and South Carolina and all the other states where they picked up and stumbled back to the nearest hotel room or wandered into the neighborhood pub or chatted up whatever field op they were working with that week.

The memory of it, just the merest thought of doing that with _Emily_ is enough to make his head spin. Emily, who's smart and funny and makes his stomach clench with the force of how much he likes her. Emily, who's impossibly _okay_ with this, more than, even.

He wants Jon to know that too.

Tommy settles for: “She's pretty great.” Jon leans an elbow against the counter of the bar, propping himself against it. Tommy barrels on ahead before he can change his mind. “I told her about — about shit on the campaign trail. When we uh—” 

“I remember.” Jon doesn’t look away and Tommy wants to squirm under the intensity of his gaze, but he can’t bring himself to look away either. “How’d she take it?”

Tommy shrugs a little, lost for words. “Well. She took it well.” Understatement. “It uh—” he laughs a little “—it was a good conversation, that’s for sure.”

“I'm happy for you.” It’s not sarcastic and Jon stays propped against the counter, just watching. Tommy can’t tell how much Jon is interpreting — or not, and maybe he should be better at this, at communicating, at picking up, at...this. 

So Tommy just grins at him. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Jon says, reaching out to snag Emily’s fresh vodka soda from the counter and tilting his head back toward their table. “Should we get back to her?”

 

They all walk back to the office together, dusk settling over the city. It’s early August and DC is sweltering, coated in a thick blanket of heat and humidity. The monuments are aglow, streets still crowded with tourists, and Tommy knows his hand is sweaty in Emily's but she doesn't let go. They’re all a little tipsy, third rounds kicking in, and chat idly the entire way back. For some reason he can’t follow, when they walk along the fence surrounding the White House, Jon is enthusiastically telling them about his plans to go on his friend’s boat for the weekend.

“Tommy sails, so if you need any pointers,” Emily says giggling. “Or he tells me he sails anyway.”

“He sails,” Jon assures her. “I’ve seen it. It’s obnoxious.”

Tommy shoves at his shoulder, warm and solid under his hand, and he can see Jon’s face crinkle with his smile, even in the dim glow of the streetlights. “Call me when you’re stuck on the water, asshole.”

It’s a process to get her back through security, so Emily just says “I’ll wait on this side of the fence.”

“Do you want to go on back to mine? I just have to grab a few things but if you don’t want to wait —” Tommy offers, already reaching for his key, and she waves him off.

“I’ll be here when you’re done and we can walk back together. It’s not a big deal.” She pulls him in for a quick kiss, hand tight against his shoulder.

Once they’ve badged through, Tommy sees Jon glance back at her and follows his gaze to see Emily settling on a bench, content to wait them out. “Want to come back with us for a bit?” He pitches his voice quieter in the empty lobby, as they wind back through the narrow hallways, mindful of the ever-present reporters and the way his voice carries. He’s not...entirely sure what he’s asking for, but lets the question hang between them anyway. “We’ll probably grab some food or something. She’s off tomorrow.”

Jon looks like he debates it with himself for a minute, but ultimately says “No, I’ve got an early morning, thanks.”

“Another time.” Tommy says decisively and Jon ducks his head, throwing his face into shadow.

“Yeah, okay.” 

They split after the staircase to the basement and when Tommy looks back, Jon’s door is still open, light spilling through the dark into the empty hallway. He has to force himself to keep walking, resisting the urge to turn around.

 

“Let’s do something,” Emily says. She collapses on the couch beside him, making him look up from his computer. He has to blink a few times, vision blurry from the small print and staring at the screen too long. “Hi.” She reaches out, smoothing a thumb over the skin under his eye. Her touch is light and gentle and he leans into it, lets her trace the dark circles there.

“Hi.” It’s been a quiet morning and he has to clear his throat, voice raspy from disuse. She’s got one leg tucked under her and he shifts the computer out of his way, turning towards her. She’s still in her favorite pair of lavender Nike shorts and a tank top, befitting the humid summer heat and lazy Saturday. He reaches out to tug her closer, his hand sliding easily up her thigh.

Emily studies him for a long, drawn out moment, like she can read the briefings on his face. Like she can see the descriptions of the missing terror suspects, the massacre in a small village he’d never heard of until now, the drug ring that keeps growing larger. It’s the worst of the news, the worst of humanity, and then some. He’s got the start of a headache forming, down at the base of his skull, and forces himself to take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

“You gotta get out of the house, babe.” She tells him — less of a suggestion and more of a command. “What do you want to do?” 

“What do _you_ want to do?” He parrots back and it makes her laugh, sliding closer until she can throw her legs over his.

“Burritos?” She suggests and it takes him all of three seconds to think about it before his stomach starts grumbling. It's a decision that's not at all swayed by the still-imposing pile of briefing books he’s desperate to avoid or the way she asks, eyes big and biting on the corner of her lower lip imploringly.

“God, yes.” He leans forward to steal a kiss. “You take such good care of me.”

“Someone has to make sure you come up for air occasionally. Even de-stress sometime. Come on.” 

Tommy follows her into the bedroom and snakes his arms around her from behind. “We could stay right here,” he suggests, voice low and head tucked into the crook of her neck, “de-stress without leaving the house.”

She puts a hand on his forearm, fingers gentle and light. “You need sunshine, fresh air.”

“I think I’ve heard of it.” He presses a kiss into the soft skin below her ear and lets her go. She steps over to the dresser to slip on a bra and tugs a t-shirt out of one of the drawers as he bends down to grab his shittiest pair of sneakers. It’s several sizes too large for her, the grey v neck hanging off her shoulders.

“Is that a new shirt?” He asks, careful to keep his tone light.

She hooks a finger in the collar of her shirt, tugging the heathered grey material away to examine it. “Isn't it yours? I found it in your drawer, next to my usual stuff.”

Tommy studies her for a minute. “It was in the back, right?”

“Yeah.” Emily looks hesitant. “Should I not have?”

It's hilarious and absurd and every move they make now seems to have this certain inevitability, always looping back around, spiraling deeper. He can feel it weighting their words, anchoring the conversation. “It's fine. It's just Jon's.”

She snorts a laugh, pulls at the hem of the shirt again, but leaves her fingers tracing the material for a beat longer. “Of course it is.”

Tommy just shrugs at her, before mumbling “Spilled something on it and left it here once.” It feels a little risky to say out loud, private in the quiet space; she just smiles to herself, small and contained. He has to...they won’t make it out of the apartment if he keeps looking at her. 

She waits by the door while he shuts down his computer and moves all the papers he had spread around him away from the windows. It’s probably a silly precaution for material that, in the grand scheme of things isn’t _that_ confidential, but when he looks up she's watching him fondly.

The taco place is a Metro stop away, but they walk instead, fingers linked together. He wants to soak up these little moments — Emily with her hair down and sunglasses in place, the way their forearms keep brushing against each other when she gets excited and starts talking with her hands, the extra long step she takes if their walking gets out of sync so they’re stride for stride again — before her summer, their summer, is over. The thought makes his throat a little tight, makes him slide a hand into her back pocket, like he can keep her longer that way.

The city spreads out alongside them, the sidewalks crowded with other people spending their weekends exploring the city. He hasn’t voiced it out loud yet, doesn’t even know what he would _say,_ but every second he spends outside the walls of the White House tastes a little sweeter. They’re hopefully four full years away from the end of the administration, but Tommy has a feeling his personal finish line is much closer than that. Even in the stiff summer heat, the open air feels kind of like freedom.

They step inside the burrito place, a little hole in the wall he’d discovered one of his first weeks living here, that time when he was drowning in overwhelm and chaos, desperate for something that would make DC feel like _his_ home. There’s a line, but the AC is cool on his clammy skin and he can’t resist pulling Emily in, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leans back against him as they wait.

“Which one should I get?” She asks — quietly, like they’re the only two in the store.

“All of them.”

She giggles and he can feel it in all the places they’re pressed together. “Unhelpful.”

“They’re all good, so, all of them.”

“Okay.”

She takes him at his word and they order enough burritos to keep them stocked the entire weekend if needed. Emily pulls one from the bag as they walk home and takes a bite, holding it out to Tommy as she chews. He pauses, right there in the middle of the sidewalk to take a bite, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to steady it. She stands still, careful, until he lets go and steps back.

“So good,” he tells her, mouth full.

“So good,” she agrees. “Do you think we got too many?”

“They’ll keep.” They start walking again, slower this time, giving Emily time to eat her burrito. “Should we, uh, see if Jon can come over?”

She glances at him. “Do you want him to?”

Tommy raises the bag. “We have burritos to spare.”

“Okay,” she says. “Yeah, sounds good.”

When Tommy pulls his phone out to text Jon, Jon’s already texted him. “Jon actually wants to know what we’re doing today.”

“Eating our weight in burritos apparently,” Emily says around a bite of tortilla. “You should definitely mention that. Big selling point. Wasn’t he going sailing? Or boating? Whatever the verb is.”

“Will do,” Tommy promises, responding quickly. They walk in silence until Tommy slips his phone back in his pocket and turns back to her.

“So how did it work?” Emily asks, tossing the empty foil into a trashcan. “When you — when you and Jon were on the campaign trail?”

“Um,” he turns to skirt past a man pushing a stroller, “I don’t know — it wasn’t like...frequent or anything. Just a couple of times.”

“So it started when you were really drunk one night or he forgot which room was his or…?”

Tommy laughs aloud. “No, it was — it was planned.” He wills the flush climbing his cheeks to stay away. “I mean, I guess we both knew what was happening the first time and then...yeah, the second time and — and after that.” Emily waits him out and he keeps talking, his words tripping over themselves. “We uh...you know, we'd all be out if we didn't have a stop the next day or if the candidate had gone on ahead, and it just…” He shrugs a little, “would go from there. We never uh, slept together though, if that's what you're asking. Like, the two of us.”

Emily keeps her face blank, the picture of innocence. “Not asking anything in particular. I just...was curious, I guess.”

Tommy reaches out to take her hand again. Emily laces their fingers together and steps in a little closer, until her shoulder brushes against his arm with every step they take. “I don’t mind telling you.” It feels even hotter in the sunshine, heat rising off the pavement. “We, uh, it was earlier in the campaign and, god, he was such a mess, Em. But in like...a good way.” He laughs. “He buzzed his hair in hotel bathrooms and was still — girls would just fall all over themselves at bars — “

“No, I get it.” She makes a face. “Too honest?”

“I mean —” Tommy shrugs “— I can’t argue with that one. But anyway, we went out to a bar one night and I was talking to someone and Jon came up and started talking to her too. It was obvious we knew each other and she asked so...we all went back to Jon’s room and that’s...how it started.”

“Huh,” Emily says, chewing on her lower lip as she thinks. “Okay.”

“Any other questions from the press pool?” He teases her as they reach his building. She leads the way in, confident and sure and familiar, and Tommy can feel himself relax as they hit the air conditioning.

“Would I be a pool or a spray?” She skids to a halt in the middle of the hallway and Tommy nearly trips over her, dodging her just in time. “Wait, I just got that — it just clicked. A pool and a spray? What’s with the water analogies?”

“Technically, it’s a pool or a pool spray — and you would just be a pool, unless you’re planning on taking photos.”

She grins widely at him, leering a little as he opens the door, keys jingling in the lock. “I mean, I keep trying.”

He passes her on his way to the kitchen, pauses to kiss her briefly before she settles on the couch. “Do you want to hear about cybersecurity and the lack thereof?” Tommy’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he sets the bag of food on the counter before digging it out, missing what Emily says next. 

_I’m here._ Jon texts. _Should I just come up?_

_You have your spare with you?_

There’s a pause before Jon responds: _Is it safe to come in this time?_

 _Only if you want to join in._ Tommy responds before he can think better of it, then adds after a minute: _It’s fine_. Just in case Jon was actually nervous.

 _Like old times?_ Jon replies nearly immediately. _It's under consideration_.

Tommy has to stand there and process _that_. Emily's stretched out on the couch, shoes kicked to the floor, and he watches her for a minute, trying to decide if he should mention it to her or not before the noise of the key in the lock makes the decision for him.

When Jon opens the door, Emily stands to give him a hug, swaying with the force of her excitement as she rocks up on her bare toes. “Hi! Come on in.”

“Thanks, Em.” The nickname seems to slip out naturally as Jon folds himself into the chair in the corner of the living room. “Hey, Tom.”

Tommy gestures to the bag on the counter. “Want a burrito?”

“Nah, but I’d take a beer if you have one.”

Tommy’s already moving towards the refrigerator. “Emily?”

“No, I’m okay.” She glances at him over the back of the couch, an arm slung over the cushion. “We know I’ll just steal yours anyway.”

“That’s why I offered.” He pops the top of both bottles, passes one to Jon before taking a seat beside Emily. “Did you go into work this morning?”

“No,” Jon scrubs a hand across his face. “Just still working on this speech. Every time I think I’m close to final edits, we have to go another round. And I keep getting distracted by new polls. So, I stayed here this weekend. Obviously.”

“This one won’t let me look at the polls.” Tommy wants to reach out for Emily, tug her in, but takes a drink instead. “Any new information today?”

Jon lifts the beer to his lips and says around the top of the bottle: “And you actually listen?”

Tommy hopes he isn’t flushing when Emily laughs a little and says with a smirk in her voice, “I have my ways.”

The air feels like it gets heavier around them when Jon says, “Noted.”

“Now no more work talk,” Emily orders. “You both look stressed just thinking about it.”

Jon squints at her. “What else is there to talk about? I think I’ve forgotten.”

“Music, movies, television, hobbies, hopes, dreams.”

“Hope, change.”

Tommy can just see the corner of Emily's wide smile next to him. “That too.” He hides a grin in her hair. He likes seeing Jon like this, a little caught off guard, forced outside his comfort zone. Tommy can't remember the last conversation he had with Jon that wasn't about politics — can’t remember if maybe that was on purpose. He can feel the loop of the spiral tightening, spinning them closer towards the inevitable end.

Jon fidgets a little in his chair, shifting until he’s slouched, leaning back with his knees spread wide, and Tommy puts an arm around Emily. She settles back against him, a grounding weight against his chest.

“So are you still thinking about it?” He asks, speaking into Emily's temple.

Jon takes another drink, movements loose and easy like he’s determined to be casual about it. “Yeah, I guess.”

Tommy can feel Emily shift against him. “I know Em’s on board.”

“Yeah?” Jon leans forward to put his beer on the coffee table, stays with his forearms braced on his knees. The clink the bottle makes against the wood is loud in the quiet room. His voice stays low, even in the warm light of the room, when he directs his next question at Emily. “How much has he told you?”

Emily sits up fully, mirroring Jon’s position. They’re perpendicular to each other, couch and chair angled close together, and their knees nearly brush. “He’s told me a lot,” she says quietly, hair falling into her face, “but I think I’d rather see it for myself.”

It seems natural, easy, as Jon reaches out to run his hand over her leg, her knee, her thigh. His fingers flex against her skin when she scoots forward and leans in, kissing him. Jon seems hesitant at first, gaining confidence as Emily yields to him. He tangles his hand in her hair, tilting her face up to him, and she goes eagerly. Tommy can hear the muffled noise she makes into his mouth when his fingers make their way higher up her leg. 

She pulls back, biting her lip, before it goes any further. “Tommy’s turn. Isn’t that how it works?”

Jon laughs a little, shaky. “Yeah, okay. It works however you want it to.”

Tommy has to stand, stepping past Emily to get closer to Jon. He stretches out a hand, guides Jon to his feet. Even with their hands still connected, he feels off balance, knocked off kilter by the way Jon's looking up at him, eyes dark and lips kissed pink. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. He’s not entirely sure what he’s reassuring Jon of — what _Jon_ thinks he’s reassuring him of — but it feels important that he say it. Jon’s flushed, high up on his cheeks and along his hairline. “It’s okay.”

Jon kisses him first. Just — closes the distance in two short steps and kisses him, closed mouthed. It’s not tentative, but gentle. One, two, three separate kisses that tumble over each other into one. It’s a prolonged moment that carries the weight of all the moments before.

Tommy can feel his breathing change as he cups Jon’s cheek and strokes a finger against his jawline. He doesn’t want to push too far or ask for too much and hangs back until Jon deepens the kiss, opening under his touch. They kiss until Tommy’s lungs burn with it and he has to pull himself away. His hand’s still resting on Jon’s cheek and Jon turns to press a kiss against Tommy’s palm, closing his eyes as he does, eyelashes dark against the pale of his cheek. Tommy can only watch in awe, still feeling Jon’s kiss against his mouth, his palm, in the pounding of his heartbeat.

“Tom —” Jon sounds a little faint, mouthing the word against his skin. And Tommy — can’t wait any more, doesn’t know how to stop the swell of emotion and...fuck.

Tommy...has to do something. Has to act, has to move before _whatever this is_ slips away. Jon’s close enough that he doesn’t have to move, just angle Jon’s mouth back up to his own. Their breathing goes ragged, losing regularity together. Jon kisses him back eagerly, pressing himself up until they’re nearly level, gripping Tommy even more tightly for balance. He kisses like he’s afraid to let go.

“Come on,” he says quietly, against Jon’s mouth. “Wanna —”

“Yeah,” Jon nearly trips when Tommy tugs him forward, walking backward towards the bedroom. He’s still in his stupid jean shorts and flip flops — pauses to kick the flip flops off, fingers staying curled in Tommy’s shirt.

Emily follows — at least, he thinks she does. It's lower on his list of priorities once Jon starts tugging his shirt over the back of his head and Tommy echoes his actions, but he glances back just to be sure. She’s drifting behind them, retracing their trail to the bedroom. The t-shirt Emily’s wearing — Jon’s shirt — is even baggier when she stands, the lower hem of her shorts barely peeking out from below it. It would look like she weren’t wearing any shorts at all, except for the way the shirt shifts when she walks across the living room. When he catches her eye, she winks and bites her lower lip, an equal mix of reassuring and playful.

He turns back to Jon, fumbling for something to say but the words die on his tongue. It's one thing to get to see him shirtless, like they’ve done a hundred times before, it's another entirely to get to _touch_. To get to fit his hands along the sturdy lines of Jon’s hipbones and smooth a palm over the smattering of chest hair and trace a finger over the vaccine scar on his upper arm. He's never been this close, never had this much free reign. The other times — he doesn't even want to think about them right now — Jon had always been at arm's length. Close, but not intimate. How different from now, when he can feel every inch of Jon pressed against him.

He fumbles for the button on Jon's pants — it's opposite, backwards from what he's used to, from Emily — and it temporarily makes his brain short circuit.

“Here,” Jon reaches for it himself, inhaling a little at the contact. Tommy copies him, kicking his shorts to the floor in what feels like record time, because that’s the only thing that he can think about right now. He’ll go anywhere, really, that Jon, who is intoxicating and dynamic and passionate, wants to lead him. 

Tommy senses Emily behind him before her hand touches his back, before she presses a kiss to his shoulder blade, one of the highest points she can reach. She lets her teeth dig in until he shivers. “You look good —” she curls her fingertips in the waistband of his boxers but doesn’t push them down “— like this.” There’s a long pause where he can feel her swallow against him, the push of her breasts against his back as she takes a deep breath. “You both do.”

Jon kisses Tommy instead of answering, but he can feel Jon reach out for her, their fingers tangling together against Tommy’s hip.

“Bed,” Tommy says finally, breaking away when his lips go numb. “Okay?” He doesn't know why he's bothering to check when Jon looks wild with it, his hair missed already, eyes bright.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jon grins at him, loose and goofy. “God, _yes_.”

Tommy presses him back against the pillows, moving so Jon's beneath him. They're kissing again, like he can't pull himself away, Jon's fingers knotted tight in his hair. He braces himself on one arm planted beside Jon's head so he can keep his other hand splayed over Jon's stomach as they kiss, his fingers straying lower and lower.

“If one of you doesn't fucking do something, I'm going to explode.” Jon complains into his mouth and Tommy had forgotten — a snapshot flashing in his mind, a half-hazy memory — his _mouth_ and the way he, like Emily, lets his filter disappear.

Tommy pulls away, as far as Jon will let him, Jon’s fingers knotted tight in his hair. The sharp pin pricks of pain makes Tommy pant, wet and begging, with how much he wants it, wants Jon.

“Emily?” He says, with effort. “Come here, babe.” He reaches out an arm to tug her in, pulling her close enough to kiss. He can feel her stretch out an arm to brace against the bed, one knee pressed into the mattress. She makes a muffled noise into his mouth and he isn’t sure why until she moves even closer, getting close enough for Jon’s hand to wrap around her upper thigh. Jon helps tug her onto the bed, crowding into the space they’ve created together.

Tommy bites a mark into the curve of her jawline, feels her hand tighten against his arm when she threatens to overbalance again. Jon’s moving too and Tommy can feel it, track it in the movement of his body underneath Tommy. Jon’s forearm brushes against Tommy’s ribs, Emily arching up when he circles her nipple, exploring his way down her body. Tommy could map every inch of her from memory and it’s intoxicating to watch Jon trace her body for the first time.

He moves when they peel Emily from her clothes together, their fingers brushing as they help push her clothes to the floor.

“Emily,” Jon might not be breathing anymore, trying to watch both Tommy and Emily at the same time, gaze flickering between them. Tommy moves to the side and lets Emily take his place above Jon, watches as she bends down to kiss him. She's elegant and fluid over him and _fuck_ , he's not going to last long either, watching them like this. Jesus, they haven’t even really fucking started yet — the knot of anticipation in his stomach making it feel like they’ve been at this for hours, the unresolved tension of the last few days culminating in this moment.

“What do you want?” Jon asks, low and quiet.

Tommy can feel a twist in his gut, something thrilling in anticipation of her response. Emily pushes and takes and demands and — “You choose,” she says easily, too accommodating. She twists back to watch Tommy's response, like she knows what he's thinking, her smile dangerous.

He closes his eyes, taking a mental snapshot of the moment: Emily long and lean over Jon, the way Jon seems to take up the entire bed, his confidence broadening his presence. He misses the moment Jon rolls Emily under him, catches the ripple effects in her groan and their tangled legs pressing against him. 

He’s happy to stay on the periphery, reaching out to trace a thumb over Emily’s parted lips, feeling her exhale when Jon slides his hand between her legs. She’s closer than he realized, rising into his touch, and Jon must sense it too, reaching up with his right hand to grab Emily’s, pinning her wrist to the bed. Tommy glances down her body to watch Jon in the mid-afternoon summer light, watch as he carefully, reverently makes her fall apart under his touch.

“Come on.” Emily’s squeezing Jon’s hand, her fingers flexing in his hold. “I need —” Her breath goes jagged and sharp and she rolls her body in a long, smooth movement, her hips chasing Jon’s hand.

“What do you need?” Jon’s good at this — Tommy has a sudden flash to a bar bathroom, somewhere in the middle of the Southern Swing in ‘07, of Jon’s nimble hands and low voice and — “Tell me.”

“Please.” Emily’s voice cracks, more whine than word, and Jon gives it to her — does whatever he does — until she’s coming, breath hitching. “Fuck.” She goes boneless when she comes, sleepy as soon as the aftershocks wear off.

Jon hasn’t moved from his spot between her legs and it’s almost too much to watch when he lowers his mouth to the apex of Emily’s thighs. She can usually go again pretty quickly, Tommy’s learned, but this one has her turning her face into the bed, mouth open, over sensitive and overwhelmed. Jon spreads her legs wide, his shoulders flexing, and Emily takes a long, shuddering breath. She’s shameless, opening up under him. Tommy helps, tugging her leg back and bending down to lick at her nipple, suck a mark into the underside of her breast, right where she likes it.

Her second orgasm hits quickly, Jon’s eyes dark on her face. Tommy can feel it in the tense of her thigh in his grasp, where he still has her leg pulled back, and the shake that wracks her entire body. Her knuckles turn white where she’s still grasping Jon’s hand, his arm stretched up to her, and her other hand knotted in the sheets. Jon turns his head to press a kiss into her thigh. He starts to move back up her body, toward Tommy, but she catches him, small hands on either side of his face and kisses him, kisses the taste of herself away, before she lets him go with a soft “Go take care of Tommy”.

Tommy’s stretching out for Jon before he’s reached him and Jon comes easily, naturally, pressing against him with his full weight. He’s hard against Tommy’s stomach, already shifting in his lap as he bends down to kiss him, cradling Tommy’s face in his hands. It’s, god, been a while since he’s jerked off someone else (and even those are hazy college memories, no finesse required), but Tommy remembers what to do — reaches between them, palming Jon’s dick through his boxers.

“Take them off,” he says into Jon’s mouth, hands pushing at Jon’s hips until he rises on his knees enough that Tommy can shove the material down. It takes a little more shifting to get them all the way off, Emily reaching over to pull Tommy’s underwear off and toss it to the floor.

“Teamwork,” Jon mumbles and Tommy laughs, the sound devolving into a quiet hiss as he finally gets his hand around their cocks. “Fuck, yes.”

He’s fumbling a little, trying to jack them off at the same time, but he can’t — _won’t_ — last for anything else, anything more refined. Jon’s doing his best to help, rocking against him as much as he can in the limited space. When Tommy chances a glance at his face, Jon’s watching their cocks in Tommy’s hand, gaze intense and focused. It’s a quiet moment of truth, the first time he’s done this with Jon without an intermediary. He thinks of dark hotel rooms and eye contact across strangers, always — _always —_ with the safe distance of another body between them. It’s hard not to mourn that wasted time now, when he has the warm press of Jon’s weight against his hips and the wet pant of his breath against his neck and the intimate knowledge of the way his breath cracks just before his abs tighten and he comes. Jon eases out of Tommy’s grasp but doesn’t move, staying close until Tommy comes too. He can feel his pulse echoing in his ears as he curls forward against Jon for a long second, with his other hand clutched tight on Jon’s waist.

It falls silent around them and Tommy presses an open-mouthed kiss to Jon’s shoulder, before Jon moves away, folding himself into the space between Emily and Tommy. 

Emily gets up to go to the bathroom with a quiet groan as she stands from the bed — Tommy can’t resist reaching out for her as she goes, running a hand down her back. She sends him a smile, squeezes his forearm before tugging her discarded t-shirt over her head and disappearing into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes behind her, Jon also stands and Tommy turns over to watch him pick through the clothes on the floor, retracing their previous steps.

“There’s a — a t-shirt over there,” Tommy offers, still sitting on the bed. He points to the corner when Jon turns helplessly in a circle.

“This one?” Jon wipes at his stomach when Tommy nods. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Toss it here.” He catches it, repeats Jon’s motion. “You headed out?” Tommy’s trying to keep his tone light, unexpecting. If he misses the mark, neither of them say anything.

“Yeah.” Jon runs his fingers over the patch of bare wrist where his watch normally lies. “I’ve got a lot to do before Monday.” Working for the federal government — and directly under the President — is both a great pick-up line and an even better excuse. It’s not like Tommy can argue with him or deny it’s true, but he wants to, wants to keep both of them here in bed with him.

Jon tosses him his underwear and he slides into it as he stands. “So,” he starts a little lamely — stops himself when Emily opens the bathroom door. Her hair is still a mess, pulled into a bun that highlights the mark below her collarbone.

“Oh good, we're all vertical,” she says cheerfully. She reaches out a hand to Jon, rests it lightly on his shoulder for a moment and Tommy watches Jon lean into her, just briefly. It's private, intimate, and _fuck_ , he gets to be a part of this. “I'm going to go find those burritos from earlier. T, they’re in the fridge, right?” They both follow her out to the kitchen where she's already opening the refrigerator.

“Em - uh, Emily -” Jon stumbles a little over his words “-- I gotta, I need to get going. I've got a draft.”

She straightens, plastic bag clutched in her hand. Tommy sees her take a breath. “Okay. Burrito for the road?” She fishes in the bag, plastic rustling, and extends a foil wrap out to Jon.

“Thanks.” He gives her a smile. “I'm going to be hungry.”

She blushes, flushing down her chest. “Probably.”

There's a long awkward, extended pause, and then Jon clears his throat. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Tommy echoes, but as Jon steps toward the door, he reaches out. He's leaning in before he can think more of it, kisses Jon goodbye like he's been doing it for years.

It takes Jon a beat to open his eyes when Tommy steps away and in the next move, he's reaching out for Emily. He draws her to him, bag rustling between them and bends down to kiss her until his mouth is slick and shiny again. He lets her go and clears his throat. “Okay, I really gotta —” He waves a little with the burrito and escapes out the door.

It closes behind him and Emily steps forward to flip the deadbolt. It snaps into place and Tommy remembers the last time they did that — thinks about how this time he wishes Jon was still on this side with them.

 

“I can’t believe you made me go out on a Sunday.”

“You’re not 100 years old.” Emily’s face is shiny with too much sun and too much heat, alcohol flushing her cheeks and collarbones even rosier. “You’ll rally tomorrow.” She reaches out to unlock the door to her apartment and Tommy drapes his body over her back, dopey from an afternoon full of drinking. “Babe, you’re going to fall when I open the door.”

Neither of them fall and he makes it successfully through the door into her small, cramped apartment — a collection of a kitchenette, bathroom, and shared bedroom that almost doesn’t deserve the title. She’s tried her best with the space though: a picture of her family hanging on the wall next to a poster from the Obama campaign, another Obama yard sign leaning in the corner that Tommy had found for her. It’s not perfect, but it’s comfortable and he’s been there enough times to make himself at home, kicking off his shoes and curling up on her twin bed.

“Are you —”

“I just need a quick nap,” he explains sleepily, holding out an arm to her. She shakes her head fondly at him, but crawls in next to him anyway. 

“Should I set an alarm?”

“Aren’t college students supposed to be good at napping? I was great at it.”

“I meant for you.”

“Shh.” He already has his eyes shut but can feel her giggle where her back is pressed against him. “Is your roommate gone?” His words slur together a little and she pats his hand resting on her stomach.

“She’ll be back tomorrow.”

He thinks he responds, but there’s a chance it’s just in his head as he falls asleep.

 

When he wakes up, Emily’s still curled up against him, snoring softly. His legs are cramping from the small bed and she wakes when he stretches, blinking sleepily and cuddling closer. Her voice is rough and raspier than usual when she says “Sleep well?”

“What fucking day is it?”

She laughs, leaning forward to press her lips to the hollow of his throat. “I think it’s still Sunday.”

“Great.” He raises an eyebrow when she slips a hand under his t-shirt. “Did you have a good dream or something?”

“Just still thinking about yesterday,” she responds, pressing up to kiss him. She slots her leg between his, grinding forward. 

He’s been thinking about the night before too — imagining, replaying — and has to choke out a quiet little “God”, when she rolls them, swinging a leg over his hips. He’s still fuzzy, the box fan in the window buzzing like the white noise in his brain, and she’s sleep-messy, sheet lines red and imprinted on her pale skin, hair sticking out from her face. He's probably not much better, but he doesn't care, desire curling low as he watches her.

Emily leans over to grab a condom from the drawer and he stabilizes her with a hand on her ass. “I'm not sure that's helpful,” she tells him dryly.

“Didn't want you to fall.” He catches the little foil package she tosses at him with his other hand. It's a feat, considering he's pretty sure he's mostly asleep.

Emily wiggles out of her shorts, tossing them to the floor and he follows suit. She takes the lead, lowering herself down with a hand on the headboard, takes him in with a quiet little “oh”. It's slow and unhurried and she closes her eyes, losing herself in the slow rock of her body. He doesn't need anything else — could spend hours watching her like this. The window unit just shuffles the hot air around the room and she's already sweating a little in the humidity, a strand of hair sticking to the side of her neck. Emily works herself up slowly, almost lazily, like the only goal she has is to keep them here, in this dizzying liminal space.

“Em —” He doesn't know what he wants to say, when he gets to have her this close, lets the sound trail off in his throat.

“Yeah, baby?”

Tommy shakes his head, mind going blank, lost to her fluid motion. He just reaches down to rub her clit, again and again and again until her legs are trembling.

“Please,” she says so quietly it's almost a whisper. “Come on.”

“Like this?” He asks, meeting her with a thrust and feeling her tighten around him in response. “ _Jesus_.”

“You could do that again,” she pants, arm flexing where she's still gripping the headboard. “Help a girl out here.”

He does and her reply comes in the dig of her nails into the meat of his shoulder, the quickening of her hips. He keeps his hand where they're joined, thumbing until she's whispering “ _Fuck_ , Tommy” and making a noise that sounds like a sob.

It doesn't take him much to finish after: a few more thrusts and feeling her clench around him.

She's shaking, moves just enough so he can pull out, staying in his lap with her forehead pressed into his neck. He traces a hand over her back, drawing nonsense patterns into the fabric of her tank top and god, how are they still wearing clothes?

“Come on, babe,” he says, tugging it over her head and shifting over until they can lay next to each other, cramped in the tiny bed. “Is this what happens when we go out on a Sunday?”

She laughs a little. “You never know.” Her brown eyes are liquid in the low light, looking up at him from the pillow.

“Yeah.” He could go back to sleep, probably, just wake up with his alarm tomorrow still slightly sweaty and come-sticky. Or he could stay like this, both of them quietly regarding each other in a silence he doesn't quite know how to break. There's a long beat before he gathers up enough courage to say “Or maybe it's what happens when we fuck Jon?”

A laugh startles out of her. “Yeah — yeah, I think mostly that one. And,” the grin that climbs across her face makes him want to squirm, energy bubbling up inside him, “Jon fucking us is probably more accurate.”

“Oh my _god_.” He presses a kiss into her hair. “So I guess that answers my question about if you want to do it again.”

“You were wondering?”

It's easier not to look at her when they're pressed this close, her presence warm and solid next to him. “Just...curious for future reference.”

She laughs, a full snort that shakes the entire bed. “You're such a fucking nerd. Yeah, note it for future reference.”

“So again? With Jon?” He adds for clarity.

“Yeah.”

“Just checking. I don’t know what’s — allowed.”

“Me either,” Emily tells him honestly. “I guess we’ll figure it out. Down the road, if it comes up.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants to figure out so much more than the next few weeks together — doesn’t want to voice a future that includes her trip back to Richmond. At the very least, for now, he can agree to this. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Love you,” she says in a small voice. It’s hot as hell, even over the covers but she takes his hand anyway, her forefinger tracing the ridge of his wrist.

It’s easy, both shockingly and unsurprisingly easy, to say it back. “Love you too.”

 

It's surprising how much Tommy's picked up by osmosis — how, without ever having been _told,_ he knows that Jon has an early morning staff with the President, that he can find him tucked away in his office after incorporating his notes, that it's the quietest, most private moment that either of them are likely to have the entire day.

So he makes his way down the stairs, almost hoping Jon's office is empty so he can prolong this a little longer, nervous excitement bubbling in his stomach. The industrial carpet absorbs the noises of his footsteps and Jon doesn't notice him until Tommy's tapping on the open door. He looks up at the noise.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Tommy can feel himself smiling already and it’s — ridiculous, entirely ridiculous that he even — for a second — wished Jon wasn’t in his office, insane that he wouldn’t want to see him. “Want a coffee?”

Jon stands and comes around the other side of his desk, a half step closer than he needs to be but still too far away. “Well I do have this draft to finish…” His sentence trails off.

The extra coffee is hot against Tommy’s hand but he doesn’t want to let it go just yet, isn’t willing to put an end to this. “Well?” He doesn’t extend it out, makes Jon take another step closer, finally pressing up against him, to wrap his hand around the cup.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, looking up at Tommy. Their hands are still pressed together around the cup and Jon’s so close Tommy can feel him breathe. There’s another beat and then — “Can I kiss you? Is that okay — with Emily?”

How is it — they’re five-plus years into this friendship; he’s seen Jon at every single possible moment and — _god_ , that question makes his damn head spin. They’ll figure it out, Emily told him. It’s unfathomable that his answer could be anything except: “Yeah, yeah, ye—”

Jon kisses him then and it takes him back just, impossibly, two days before, standing in his kitchen. It’s the same kind of soft, hesitant kiss — the kind that signals the beginning of something bigger.

The door is still wide open and the grumble of a janitor's cart down the hall makes Tommy finally step away. “I'll see you later?”

Jon takes a sip of the coffee and Tommy leans back in to kiss it off his lips, to taste the lingering sweetness. “Yeah,” Jon says quietly, “I'll see you later.”

He's settling back into his chair, coffee cup on the desk next to him when Tommy turns back, already halfway out the door, professional distance securely in place. “What are you doing tonight?”

Jon's buzzcut has grown out since he stopped trying to give himself haircuts in the dingy reflection of a hotel mirror, but he hasn't yet broken the habit of scrubbing a hand through his longer hair. It’s a familiar, reassuring motion. “No plans.” There’s a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Want to grab a drink or — or come over?”

“Yeah.” Jon looks down at the pen he’s twisting in his hands, trying to hide his smile. “Yeah, I do.”

“Cool. I’ll — we’ll see you later.” He has to walk away before he just...decides to stay, trapped in the slow orbit of Jon’s kiss. It’s a good thing he’s already back at his desk when his phone buzzes. 

It’s Jon, simple and cautious: _was hoping you’d ask._


End file.
